


Left Wanting

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Valjean never saved Cosette, and Éponine and Cosette are almost-but-not-really friends. Sharing rolls and trying to share hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left Wanting

Éponine has been told that she should be grateful Cosette exists, if only so there is someone more wretched than her. Grateful—pah! There is sublimity in Cosette's suffering, a coolness of the eyes as if she does not exist as others do. Even at her most abject, curled in the snow and shaking with hunger, there is something untouched about her which Éponine does not understand—it's as if all the world is a gray fog and Cosette alone can disappear in it.

Éponine has no such luxuries. When the stone buildings of Paris stretch like unforgiving giants above her head, when the dogs howl with her misery, when her stomach twists with such a hunger that she can hardly eat, Éponine cannot escape it, is grounded in every moment in a way that no amount of dreams or imagination could mask. 

So she is not grateful for Cosette's wretchedness—it is a poverty that does not reach the soul. Éponine knows better than to think she could ever have that sort of wealth. 

No—Éponine is not grateful for Cosette's misery—but she is grateful that Cosette does not shy away from sharing her misery, which is closer to hope than Éponine would come to on her own.

*

"You'll get your nose taken like that," Éponine whispers.

It's easy to startle Cosette—but she has the sense to keep quiet as she turns to see who surprised her. Éponine smiles. "I wasn't spying," she says. "I only don't want to be found." 

They're under a bridge, hidden by a pillar; Montparnasse and Babet are deep in discussion only one pillar away, their silhouettes no more threatening to Éponine than a wild dog's. The men must not know that Cosette stays here when the weather is kind, or did a poor job of checking the area for curious ears. 

"Come along, then," Éponine says. "They're only men—they will be glad to see the back of us, anyway. I have some letters to deliver and Azelma is sick. I'll give you a few sous for your trouble if any of them take." 

Cosette lowers her head, casting her face in shadow. Her collarbones jut out, sharp, hungry. She won't say no, though she doesn't like it—it's likely that she hates Éponine, or should at any rate. "Fine," she says. 

Their bare feet make no sound as they quit the shelter of the pillar, and Montparnasse and Babet hush when they notice the girls following the river. "Hey, Éponine!" Montparnasse calls out. 

Éponine takes Cosette's arm in hers and tosses her head; let the men follow if they want. They never talk about anything useful, anyway, or not about anything that would be useful to girls like Cosette. Montparnasse flings a flippant curse their way, but when Éponine glances back, they haven't moved, and there is no silver flash of a knife.

Sometimes it is handy to have no value. 

"Let go," Cosette says, once they have left their line of sight. 

Éponine does, if somewhat reluctantly. By now Cosette must have considered that it is too late to go about delivering letters, but she doesn't ask why Éponine sought her. Perhaps she thinks it's too dangerous a question to ask. "My, the skies are cruel tonight—it will storm before the night is over, don't you think?" Cosette won't respond, she knows, so she keeps talking, her voice rasping in her throat. "And the lights off the river are like candles, much prettier than you would think." She touches at her dress as if feeling her pockets. "Oh, I've forgotten the letters. Well, that is too bad. I have just enough that we can share a penny roll, if you're hungry." 

Cosette does not look away from the river as she nods. It seems unlikely that she has ever wished to jump into its murky depths, to disappear from this world, but she gazes at the water's ripples as if it hides some great answer from her.

Éponine pushes her shoulder, more roughly than she should. "Then perk up, Mademoiselle Cosette, and come along. There's no use in that sort of face when we're going to eat, is there? Ah, the stars are peeking out over there; what do you think they think of us? I try not to wonder but still I can't help it; they don't have to smell Pantin, after all, do they? How lucky. They swim in the river but do not drown. They are friends with the moon. And who do we have?"

"Each other," Cosette says, so softly that Éponine almost does not hear it.

"What? What was that?" Éponine throws her head back and laughs. "Are we friends?"

"Maybe not," she says, "but what else is there for us?"

"That's fair. You still can't find someone to take you off the streets," Éponine says. "No one wants to hire girls who look like us. Even the prostitutes laugh in our faces. What a pity! It would be sweet to not have to carry those damn letters. Say, should we jump into the river? Do you think she would have us?"

This, above all else, makes Cosette turn to her. There is something like reproach in her face, an agitation that is still not enough to make her raise her voice. "We could be honest women," she says. 

"No, I don't think so. But the river is too cold for all that, and dirty besides. Nevermind all that. Here, there is a baker down that street who sells his old penny rolls at the end of the day at a discount—do you think we might get two? That would be something. Even the black ones aren't so bad. Are you still living under that bridge, by the way? It's starting to get cold for it, after all. You will lose your nose either way, by the knife or by the chill, and that's no good for a girl who needs her pretty face." 

Cosette laughs at that, a tinkling in the evening air. "It's not so bad. Better than living with them."

While Éponine agrees, she does not want to say it, as if speaking the words aloud will hurt her. Some superstitions are better left untested. She runs a hand through her hair. "You should talk to the baker," she says, after a moment. "They always like you better."

Cosette does not argue, and accepts the sous from Éponine, her fingers brushing at Éponine's without flinching away. It is a small touch, a small charity between them—the rolls from Éponine, the hope of that touch from Cosette. Neither are immaterial. 

The baker tenses when he sees Éponine in his doorway, but Cosette draws pity from him, first, and then a gentle kindness; he accepts her sous and hands her two penny rolls, both untouched, the bread still soft. If Éponine had come alone, she would have perhaps gotten one of that quality, but Cosette is like honey, and too unassuming to be a threat. No one would expect to be robbed by her sweet, cracked hands. 

They take the rolls with them, eating slowly as they walk. The lamps have all been lit, now, and the ropes dangle down from them like vines; the shadows are long, and people walk with their collars turned up and their hands in their pockets. Cosette and Éponine are in no hurry. They have nowhere to be. No one will miss them.

"Azelma's sick?" Whenever Cosette speaks, she leaves the impression that she hasn't, as if silence is a still water that she can slide through without breaking its tension.

Éponine nods. "Coughing up her lungs and all that. Our good father is overjoyed. 'She looks like she might die!' Which is not true; she looks dead already, and rattles like a skeleton. Maman is in a rage." 

Cosette slips into an alley and tucks the rest of the roll into her cheek; Éponine follows and waits as she begins to climb the building. It is a sturdy one, older than Éponine by many decades, with cracks in its walls from which vines try to grow. Cosette slithers to the top of the building, leans over, and waves Éponine up. They will be hidden there, and safe, until the storm breaks. 

Éponine clambers up, taking care with her dress, though it is already in tatters. From the roof they have a clear view of the city; the Seine winds through the squatting buildings, a black snake with shining scales. It is almost pretty. A cool wind blows across the roofs, cutting through the claustrophobic humidity that foretells the coming storm. 

"From here we could talk back to the thunder," Éponine says.

Cosette touches her hand. "Thank you." 

"Don't thank me," Éponine says, though she takes her hand, brushing the calloused skin. "I'll make you work for it, yet. Tomorrow I'll find you and bring the letters. Maybe we will eat again."

"Maybe." 

Éponine brings her hand to her mouth and kisses it. When Cosette does not pull away, she lets her lips linger there, wishing that the touch would give her something close to hope, wishing that the city might not leave them wanting, knowing that it will.


End file.
